It's The Thought That Counts
by Joon
Summary: Owen's birthday is utterly ruined from being a member of Torchwood. Ianto, Owen Non-Slash


My second Torchwood fic. I seem to have a soft spot for between seasons fics that star Ianto and Owen hate/liking each other.

* * *

Usually, Owen finds working for Torchwood a life full of perks. No one else from his graduating class could boast of ever having done an autopsy on an alien. Most of the people he'd gone to med school with were now working in hospitals or private practices, doing the day in and day out average work. And he was testing devices from other planets and interacting with creatures that would make most people's heads spin.

But the work had its downsides. One of them being it is very well possible that on any given day, you could wind up stuck down a very deep hole in the middle of the woods when you should be in a pub, celebrating your birthday with a few drinks. Maybe if he had gotten trapped in his current situation with either Gwen or Tosh, he could wrangle a silver lining that involved sharing body heat. But he's trapped with Ianto. And a Jabbor's corpse. It's just his bloody luck.

"Think if I got on your shoulders I could reach the top and climb out?" Owen speculates, trying to eyeball the depth of the pit they were in.

"Considering you've got a broken arm-"

"Fractured at best," Owen interrupts.

"And I can't stand up," Ianto continues over him, gesturing vaguely to the deep gash on his right leg. "I don't think you have much of a chance," he finishes from his place on the ground, effectively murdering Owen's optimism. "Tosh and Gwen'll just have to find us."

"And how're they going to do that?" demands Owen. "My mobile's lost to a Jabbor's digestive system." The physician finds it funny in a distinctly Not Ha Ha Funny way that for all the fancy technical equipment they have, they currently can't even make a phone call.

"I think mine's still workable," Ianto offers. From the depths of his very muddy jacket, he pulls out a half cracked mobile that feebly squawks at Owen when the physician tries the buttons. He walks the perimeter of the Jabbor feeding pit, trying to get a signal, but it seems a miracle the phone's even making noises, never mind capable of making a call.

"This is useless," Owen finally announces.

"Then we just have to wait," Ianto repeats. "We told Tosh and Gwen we'd rendezvous with them within the hour. They'll know something's wrong when they can't reach us."

"Great," Owen mutters, checking his watch. If he's being generous about the universe not completely fucking him over on his birthday, he can estimate it'll be at least another 30 minutes before the girls would try and reach them on their phones. Once that fails, it'll probably take Tosh at least another 20 to trace them to their current location. No matter what the night is ruined anyway. His arm is killing him from where that last Jabbor had grabbed to effectively throw him into the feeding pit. But Owen feels rather proud of the fact that on his way down, he'd managed to fire his weapon and take the Jabbor's head off. It was all done very Secret Agent Man style and he's sad no one was around to witness it, seeing as how Ianto was already down the pit.

"Knowing our luck, their mates will get here before our rescue," Owen sighs. The pack he had on him with all his medical supplies is lying somewhere about ten feet above them where the Jabbor had ripped it off. Owen can mentally see the rolls of gauze and bandages that could really come in handy right now. He's also craving a cigarette in the worst way, but after rant upon rant from Tosh last week about the hazards of smoking, Owen had quit just to get her to shut up. _Bloody timing…_

"Doubt it," Ianto replies, breaking into his thoughts. It's the first bit of cheer in the Welshman's tone since his whole Nearly Got Mauled Incident. In his hand he's holding up what Owen assumed was random alien accessory, but was actually a transmission log from the dead Jabbor by Ianto's left. The corpse still has its own weapon sticking out of its chest where Ianto had driven it through after he'd lost his gun during his fall. "This one and his friend were the only ones here. And since you decapitated the other one, I think we're safe."

"Since when did you learn how to read Jabbor?" Owen asks.

"I spend a lot of time at the Hub," deadpans Ianto as a reply.

"You really need to get out more," says Owen, matching dry for dry.

"Yes, because this outing has been so encouraging."

"What? You'd rather be at the Hub making coffee?"

"At the moment? Yes."

Owen finds he'd rather be doing that himself. This isn't the first field mission the sole member of Torchwood Three's support division has gone on. But it is his first without Jack at the helm. And Owen imagines their still new-ish leader Gwen will be having kittens once she realizes they've gone missing. And probably go into Care Overload once she finds out the least seasoned member's currently bleeding out pints of blood. He only hopes that this might mean a speedier rescue.

"Second time now a mission I'm on ends with something trying to eat me," Ianto bemoans. "At least Jabbors naturally eat humans, I suppose," he adds as a 'on the bright side'.

"It's a great comfort," Owen states, his sarcasm going strong. His own head pounds a little as he kneels by Ianto to inspect the damaged leg. It'll definitely need stitches and again he imagines all the helpful tools that are lying ten feet above them.

"I don't suppose you- OW!" Ianto shouts when Owen puts sudden pressure on his still oozing leg. "Owen, can't you warn a man first?" he demands through gritted teeth.

"God, blood loss makes you crabby," Owen complains, squeezing the bleeding wound only tighter. The fact he can only do it with one hand doesn't make it quite as effective, but he doesn't trust Ianto to do it himself. Seeing as they're strapped for actual medical items, he eyes what was once a light blue tie around Ianto's neck. "I'm commandeering your tie," he states. "Hand it over."

Ianto does so without voicing any protests, telling himself he'd rather keep his leg than a tie. Owen's not exactly gentle when he knots the makeshift tourniquet, employing his one good arm and his teeth, but that feels preferred at the moment. A gentle Owen could only mean he's at death's door. Still, he grimaces at the throbbing pain.

"No painkillers for you," Owen says, guessing what's on the Welshman's mind. "Even if I had any, none for you. You got a bad knock in the head-"

"That's from you falling on me, Owen," Ianto can't help pointing out.

"And you probably have a concussion," the physician concludes.

Ianto gives him a slightly disbelieving glare. "You're one to talk. You've been holding an entire conversation with the tree root by my head."

"No, I haven't. That's your head injury talking," Owen stubbornly says, refusing to admit that if he blinks too quickly Ianto tends to twin himself in front of him. The earlier desire for nicotine is now practically clawing at Owen and he glances at the dead Jabbor in some wayward hope that they had something akin to cigarettes on their planet.

Probably not. 

"We're all supposed to be inside a nice warm pub right now," he grouses, sliding down to sit by Ianto's good leg. "You should have all bought me a birthday drink. Some gorgeous blonde should be offering me a birthday shag. But yeah, this is fun too," he says, bitterly.

"Will you feel better if I sing you a birthday song?" Ianto asks. He sounds overly serious, which is the first indicator for Owen that he's taking the piss.

Owen gives him a glare. "I'll feel much better if you promise never to sing to me. Ever. Let's make that your birthday present to me, yeah?"

"Actually, I got you present. It's back at the Hub."

Owen stares. "You what?"

"Don't worry," Ianto says with a somewhat evil smile. "You probably won't like it."

"Thank god for that," Owen heaves out in exaggerated relief. "For a minute there I thought were starting to fancy me."

Before Ianto can retort, a gurgling, tinny sound emerges from Owen's pocket. It takes the physician a second to realize it's Ianto's phone that he'd still had in his jacket. The cracked, half functioning screen of the mobile tells him it's "TOR WOO"

"Yeah? Hello?" Owen answers.

"Owen?" It sounds like Tosh. Underwater, maybe.

"Finally," Owen enthuses. He explains as least pathetically as possible that he and Ianto are stuck down a hole in the middle of the woods.

"You…right?" The phone cuts in and out, but Owen recognizes Gwen's accent and just assumes what her question must be.

"I've got a busted arm-"

"And a concussion," Ianto supplies next to him.

"And teaboy's getting gangrene as we speak," Owen finishes. He grins as he can practically feel the frown on Gwen's face. "Oi! Ianto! You die and I get your iPod," he unnecessarily shouts for Gwen's worrying benefit. He gets double the earful of Welsh from both sides. All of which he can't understand and guesses it's probably better if he doesn't.

"I've got –cation," Tosh's voice budges in. "Ten …s…"

The line goes dead.

"Let's hope that was ten minutes and not hours," Owen says.

* * *

Two hours later, Owen's back at the Hub to collect his things before going home.

He smiles a little, recalling the murderous glare he got from Ianto upon the Welshman seeing he was getting discharged. Despite the fact that Owen did have a mild concussion to go with a badly fractured arm, he's out within the hour. Ianto, for whatever reason, is told he has to stay for observation. Much to his chagrin and suspicion that it's all Owen's fault.

And Owen did put in a word to Ianto's attending. Something about repeated injuries and delicate constitutions. He supposes it's a bit nasty, but his birthday is thoroughly ruined and he needs to get his jollies in somewhere.

The Hub is quiet when he gets inside. As he passes by his workstation, he sees a small box sitting by his computer. It's neatly wrapped in what looks like pamphlets that warn against smoking. Ripping through it, Owen finds inside a small glass ashtray, very deliberately cracked in half. A card next to it simply reads, "Happy Birthday" in neat handwriting.

The gift is uselessly symbolic and thoughtful in a slightly bastardly way. And so very Ianto. Owen feels a lot less guilty about keeping him laid up in hospital. But the physician grins as he puts the broken ashtray inside a drawer for safekeeping.

* * *

The next day, Ianto persistently argues with the doctor on call to be released until he makes himself irritating enough so that the doctor could care less if Ianto drops dead. He finally gets discharged with a set of crutches to ease the burden of putting weight on his injured leg.

When he gets home, there's a box sitting outside his door. It's not wrapped and when he opens it, there's a junky coffee maker inside. The model is one that was probably popular years ago. It's been thoroughly destroyed with the filter holder missing bits of itself. The accompanying card is in Owen's recognizable scrawl and reads in bold, silent snark, "Get Well Soon."

Ianto smiles as he takes it inside with him.

THE END


End file.
